Chapter Six
The room grew silent around him, the good-natured bantering evaporating into thin air.
And fuck. Just fuck.
He couldn’t believe he’d said that, couldn’t believe he’d fucking blurted that shit out. Everyone had been joking around, having a good time, and he’d busted it wide open. As usual.
He should have just kept his mouth shut, should have just grinned and borne whatever Poppy was going to come up with. But he couldn’t stand the idea of her fumbling around trying to figure out what to say in an effort to keep him from feeling bad. Better to just get that shit out there than try to keep it buried under the rug. After all, facing the truth about himself instead of running from it was one of the twelve steps…
Still, he felt like a total ass. Or, worse, like the basket case everyone considered him. But he couldn’t say all that, couldn’t get it out when his friends were looking at him with a mix of exasperation and pity and trepidation.
So instead he started to apologize, but before he could do much more than open his mouth, Poppy jumped in with a roll of her eyes. “Actually, Micah’s always been considered the fuck-up—even before we started spinning him that way two months ago. You’re the dark and brooding one.”
“Wow.” Quinn’s brows shot up. “The fans know us better than I thought they did.” He looked impressed, which did nothing to make Wyatt feel better.
“I told you,” Poppy continued. “They analyze your every move. They spend a lot of time trying to figure out who you really are when you aren’t onstage.”
“Huh.” Jared ran a hand across the back of his neck, “Am I the only one creeped out by that idea?”
“No, no you’re not,” Ryder answered quietly. “I mean, I’m sure it’s harmless, but—”
“They’re wrong.” While the others were busy discussing the problems with fans who paid too close of attention to them, Wyatt reached past Poppy and picked up his bottle of soda from the table. “I don’t brood.”
Turned out the others weren’t as distracted as he thought, because the whole room cracked up at his words, including Poppy. Or maybe, especially Poppy.
“Certainly not,” she agreed easily. “There’s absolutely nothing broody or tortured about that scowl you’re wearing at this very moment.”
He jerked his chin up, tried his best to smooth out his expression. “I’m not scowling!”
“Seriously, dude, your entire being is one big, tortured scowl,” she shot back, trailing a soft hand down his arm. “Even your tats are broody. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It definitely works.”
“You make it sound like it’s all an act. I’m not trying to be that guy.”
“Of course you aren’t. I know that.” She slipped past him and grabbed a piece of pizza out of the box before batting her eyes in his direction. “And so do the fans. It’s why they respond. Because you are that guy. You don’t have to try. And the fact that you have the second best ass in the band definitely doesn’t hurt.”
He still didn’t like the way she made it sound, still wanted to argue with her about her perception of him. But the more he argued, the more of an issue it became, and the last thing he wanted was to have to actually explain anything. And he definitely didn’t want to let the woman in charge of the band’s social media—and could he ask how the fuck that was even a real job—into his head even superficially.
He was trying to be subtle about his discomfort, trying not to let her or the others see just how freaked out this whole conversation was making him, but it must not have worked because the next thing he knew, Ryder was totally throwing himself in front of the bus for him.
“Second best ass?” he demanded, deflecting her attention off of Wyatt and back on to him. “Really? If his is second, where exactly does mine rank? I mean, at this rate you’re going to give me a complex.”
“Your ass is very nice,” she soothed. “In fact, if we’re ranking, I’d definitely put it—”
“Can we move away from the topic of who has the best and worst asses in the band, please?” Jared demanded, shaking his head grumpily.
“Aw, come on. You’re just afraid you’re going to come in last,” Ryder told him.
“How did you guess,” he deadpanned back. “That’s it, exactly. I lie awake every night afraid that my ass isn’t as good as the great Ryder Montgomery’s. How ever will I go on now that I know my fears are justified?”
“It will be hard,” Poppy told him. “But I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“I don’t know. I could be traumatized.” He leaned forward, got in Poppy’s space. Focused on her all the intensity and charm he was known for. “Maybe you could help me get over the trauma?”
Poppy laughed, and before he even knew he was going to do it, Wyatt slammed his bottle down on the table between them. Hard. The others all turned to look at him in surprise. Except Jared, who smirked a little before backing off.
Not that Wyatt needed him to back off or anything. One quick encounter behind a club didn’t mean anything. Especially when Poppy hadn’t even bothered to stick around until the end of the gig so they could meet properly.
And still he found himself glaring at Jared. Still he found himself crowding closer to Poppy than he had any right to. Maybe the fact that he still wanted her was reason enough.
She must not think so, though, because she shot him a surprised glance, before turning back to Jared and pulling out her phone. “Go ahead and turn around. I’ll take shots of your ass and post them all over social media. I’m sure the comments we get will boost your self-esteem right back where it belongs.”
Jared couldn’t scoot back far or fast enough, even as he made sure to keep his ass planted firmly in the chair. “You know, I’m feeling better already.”
Poppy grinned. “Somehow I knew you would be.” Then she turned back to the others. “Can we please talk about your social media presence now?”
“Now?” Ryder looked surprised.
“Yes, now,” she huffed, exasperated. “I know you want to get down to work and that’s great. It’ll show really well on Snapchat and Tumblr. But I want to lay things out for you first so there are no surprises. At this point in time, my job is to get you on every important social media platform there is—and to document your time leading back to tour so we can show the world that you guys are in great shape and ready to rock. To do that, we need content. Lots and lots of content.”
“You want us to tweet more?” Quinn sounded aggrieved. “Fine, we’ll tweet more. But we have an album to finish writing and to record, a tour to plan for and a bassist to find. So excuse us if tweets aren’t our first priority.”
“That’s the point. Social media should always be one of your top priorities. And, for a while anyway, you don’t have to do anything. That’s what you have me for. I just need access and I’ll—”
“Exactly what kind of access are you talking about?” Wyatt interrupted, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He already had his bandmates looking over his shoulder, watching his every move. The last thing he needed or wanted was Poppy doing the same thing. If he screwed up—which he wasn’t planning on doing, but still—he sure as shit didn’t want it to be documented on Twitter. Or Tumblr. Or whatever the hell other platforms she was talking about.
“I want access to your rehearsals. Your song writing sessions, like today. Your nights out, if you do anything as a band. I can Snapchat it or Vine it, get your Tumblr working for you, call the paparazzi and get some HQ photos of you circulating—”
“We don’t call the paps,” Ryder told her, looking incredulous. “We’re not some pop act. The last thing we want is that kind of attention.”
“That kind of attention, when focused properly, is what’s going to sell more records for you, to people who don’t necessarily listen to Shaken Dirty. It’s what’s going to help sell out the seats in this stadium tour you’ve got planned. You need exposure right now. Lots and lots of exposure, so it looks like y
ou guys are in high demand.” Poppy grabbed one of the unopened sodas and twisted the cap off before taking a long swig. “Which you are,” she continued. “But we want everyone to know just how popular you are so we can take you to the next level and make you guys a household name. And we want to reward your fans by giving them more access to you and your private times.”
“They aren’t exactly private if we give the world access to them,” Wyatt countered. “I don’t want to constantly have to worry about what’s going to get posted and what isn’t. I already have enough of that with the whole drug rehab scandal.”
Just the thought of that kind of publicity—that kind of access—made his skin crawl. He knew it was ridiculous to feel that way. After all, he’d spent the last few years working right along with the rest of them to ensure that Shaken Dirty was successful, was recognized. But being famous for making music was one thing, especially when he got to hide behind his drum kit at the back of the stage. It was another thing altogether to make his life front and center the way Poppy was suggesting.
“Yeah. We’re not reality TV stars,” Quinn said quietly, the unease in his voice echoing perfectly the concern Wyatt was feeling. “We’re musicians.”
“Of course you are, I know that. Which is why we’re not actually going to give them twenty-four-seven access. We’re just going to give your fans the illusion of that access.”
“Wait. You want us to lie to them? Pretend to be something we’re not?” Suddenly, he felt even more uncomfortable. He’d spent too much of the last few years lying—about the drugs, about his feelings, about the past. The last thing he wanted was to get out of rehab and just add to the pile of lies. Not when everything his counselors had preached to him had been about being honest with himself and his world. And since telling the world about his past was out of the question—he wasn’t going there, ever—he’d kind of counted on being able to be honest about everything else.
“No! That’s the last thing I want! If you aren’t honest with the fans, they’ll know—with social media and Google the way they are today, it’s really easy for the fans to catch you in a lie. And if we’re going to rebuild Shaken Dirty’s brand, we definitely don’t want that.”
“Well, then, I’m confused,” Jared said, kicking his feet onto the empty chair next to him. “What exactly do you want from us?”
Poppy leaned forward, her eyes wide and earnest as she looked from one member of Shaken Dirty to another. When it was his turn—when her gaze met his—Wyatt felt himself falling into them, falling into her, despite his best intentions not to. But her eyes were big and brown, with little gold flecks, and he could feel the warmth of them.
What the hell was the matter with him? he wondered furiously. And what kind of power did she have over him that he found himself thinking about fucking her—about sliding his cock between those lush pink lips of hers—when what he should be thinking about was what was best for Shaken Dirty?
As she started talking, he forced himself to focus on her words and not the many, many things he wanted to do to her.
“Your fans are digging for stuff about you right now. They’re reblogging every picture, every tweet, every piece of you they can get their hands on, analyzing everything you’ve ever done, coming up with conspiracy theories about Micah and Wyatt and everything else under the sun.
“So, what we want to do is control the narrative. Give them other stuff to talk about besides Wyatt’s addiction and Micah’s douchebag behavior.”
“I’m okay with them talking about Micah being a douchebag as long as they want to,” Jared interjected drily.
“I bet.” She shot him a sympathetic smile. “But the longer they’re focusing on that, the harder it will be to get them to focus on what’s really important. Which is buying your music and getting tickets for the upcoming tour.”
“So, the money, in other words,” Wyatt said.
She laughed. “I’m from the label. So, yes, the money is very important. But to me, the music—and your legacy—is just as important. I want to do everything I can to help you on both fronts.”
Wyatt didn’t know whether to believe her—she was from the label, after all. But at the same time, she looked so determined, so sincere, that it was hard not to buy what she was selling. A glance at his friends told him they pretty much felt the same way. Which meant, like it or not, she was going to be underfoot for the next little while.
He decided to focus on the positive. Sure, her being with the label might be awkward after what they’d gotten up to the night before. But the damage had already been done, so he didn’t see why it couldn’t happen again. And again. In fact, the longer Poppy stuck around, the better his chances were of getting his mouth on her again…
Suddenly, embracing social media didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.
Chapter Seven
She’d never felt so guilty in her life.
Poppy told herself she was just doing her job, told herself that—to make it up to them—she was going to do everything with their social media that she’d promised. Told herself, even, that by babysitting Wyatt she was actually helping him and Shaken Dirty.
But no matter how true all that was, it didn’t matter. She still felt guilty as hell.
Especially since the guys were all working so hard to let her in, to do what she asked and give her the access she needed.
It had been two days since she’d shown up at Quinn’s house with cupcakes and an agenda a mile long. In that time, she’d sat in on band rehearsals and song writing sessions, had gone out to the Sixth Street clubs with them, had even been allowed to hire a couple of paps to shadow Ryder and Jamison when they’d visited three bakeries yesterday to pick out their wedding cake.
She’d started an official Shaken Dirty Tumblr blog and filled it with behind-the-scenes pictures of the guys working in Quinn’s music room and recording studio. She’d published numerous Vines and Snaps of them singing and joking around with one another. She’d even tweeted lyrics from a couple of the songs they were working on. And still they hadn’t complained once.
They’d watched her warily at times, had even been a bit hesitant about letting her record the Snaps of their songwriting sessions, but in the end they’d done everything she’d asked of them. Hell, they’d even invited her to hang out with them during non-working hours, since they knew she didn’t know anyone in town—like they were getting to be friends. And the whole time she was lying straight to their faces about her real reason for being here¸ and about how deep her connection to the label really ran.
She hated it.
Just like she hated having to keep an eye on Wyatt, hated poking around about his intentions when he ran out to the store or to pick up lunch for the guys, or coming up with excuses to watch him when he ducked outside for a smoke.
So far she’d seen no evidence that he was using or drinking and that only made things worse. The longer he went without even trying to score drugs, the more traitorous she felt. Like she was here, lying to him and the others, for no reason at all.
But staying clean three days out of rehab wasn’t staying clean for good, and if she didn’t do her job—if she didn’t do her best to keep him out of trouble—and he relapsed? She knew her father would lose his shit completely. Then Micah wouldn’t be the only member of Shaken Dirty being replaced…
She was stuck between a rock and a hard place with nothing to do but suck in her stomach and pray like hell they didn’t all get crushed. It wasn’t comfortable, it didn’t feel good, but right now it was all she could do.
And even though they didn’t know—even though she hoped they’d never know—she was determined to make up for her duplicity. Determined to give Shaken Dirty the best social media game in the business, and to help the band out as much as she could at the label, even if it meant standing up to her father about what was best for them.
They deserved that much from her.
With that thought in mind—and because she was more than
half an hour early for rehearsal and had time to kill—she fired off a quick email to Caleb, telling him for the third time in as many days why she didn’t like any of the bassists the label had brought forward to audition for Shaken Dirty. While Li was the only one they’d done a full set with, they’d jammed with two other bassists yesterday—including Owen Torres from Wisdom. Neither of them had fit any better than Li had, and while they still had other auditions set up, she could tell her father was growing impatient. She was afraid he’d start pressuring them to accept Li or Owen any second now and she didn’t want that to happen.
She’d fight her father on it herself if she had to, but she knew he’d take Caleb’s opinion much more seriously than he’d ever take hers—even though she was the one here in Austin with them. She could only hope her brother took her email seriously and could convince their father to give the search a little more time to yield results, no matter how tight their timetable was.
She hit send on the email, then texted Caleb a quick message to underscore her point before climbing out of her car and making her way to the recording studio. Wyatt was early, too—the only one of the guys who ever was, she’d come to notice—and he was hanging on the side patio of the recording studio with a clove cigarette dangling from his fingertips and a far off look in his eyes—a look that had become very familiar to her over the last couple of days.
Quick and easy, she reached out and grabbed the cigarette from between his fingers before he even knew it was happening. Then she dropped it on the ground and stomped on it with her rainbow flip-flops.
“Hey!” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I wasn’t done with that.”
“Haven’t you heard? Smoking will kill you and your voice.” She reached into her purse and pulled out one of the lollipops she’d picked up at Target earlier. Held it out to him. “Try this instead.”
He looked between her and the strawberry flavored candy. “Are you serious?”